


Be Still

by Guy_Fleegman



Category: POE Edgar Allan - Works, The Tell-Tale Heart - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: Horror, but from a different pov, did this for my intro to lit class, re-telling of the same story, unnamed narrator from original is called Edgar in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21714175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guy_Fleegman/pseuds/Guy_Fleegman
Summary: This is the Tell-Tale Heart, but from the old man's perspective. I named the narrator from the original 'Edgar'. This was an assignment for my intro to lit class, and I felt like sharing.
Kudos: 6





	Be Still

Edgar had been watching me while I slept. Every night, hours after I’d turned in, I’d hear the door creak open. I never looked, afraid of what I might see. My mind conjured horrifying images; images of a wild-eyed Edgar looming over me with a hammer raised above his head. He was waiting for me to look at him. I didn’t. Some nights he’d wait for hours before giving up—after all, he always had tomorrow.

At day, we’d pretend nothing was amiss, sharing breakfast together while talking of work and school and family. My heart would race when I caught him looking funny at my bad eye. It had never been a problem before, but the past few weeks had done something to Edgar, changed something in him.

He began speaking in run-on sentences, not quite sure where a thought started or where it ended. I’d think him mad, but that would be unfair. After all he’d done for me, even over the past few weeks. Cooking my meals, making my bed, asking how my day had been, it was all quite pleasant; his worries were his own but if he ever shared them with me, I’d happily listen. Until then, I’d go on like normal, ignoring his nighttime activities.

My blanket was almost as thin as my hair, and my mattress yellowing and rank, but I burrowed deep into both like a bed bug. It was the fourth night, and I wasn’t surprised to hear the door creep open, inch by inch. It was a slow process this ‘watching me sleep’ pastime.

I could hear him breathing; ragged in, heavy out. Ragged in, heavy out. The rhythm of his breaths almost lulled me despite my unease with the observation, but then a high wisp of sound shot to my ears. He was whispering. Though I strained, I couldn’t identify individual words without turning my head in his direction. He left eventually, but I never drifted off.

Because of my lack of sleep the prior night, the fifth night my pillow felt as though it were a cloud; I needed this. Pulling the blanket to my chin, I forgot about my nightly visitor. Eyes shut, heart-rate slow, mind far-off, the door opened. Adrenaline shot through my system. _Goddamn him! Goddamn him to hell!_

The Sandman, Edgar was not, and I lay awake till the sky turned cerulean blue.

I painted that day, my mind in an exhaustive haze. Earlier in the month I’d started a series of works titled ‘Untitled’; they consisted of splashes of deep green mixed with controlled flicks of the brush in yellow, and long wounds in red dripping down the canvas onto the floor, and gray beaches painted with vague shapes signifying the break from sand to sea. That day I painted a man’s face, eyebrows pulled violently downward, sharp teeth jutting from his frothing mouth, blank white holes in the place of eyes.

Edgar praised my work, but I caught a side glance when he thought I wasn’t looking. What did he really think, I wondered.

The sixth night came and went; not a wink of sleep was had by either of us.

He stifled a yawn the next day as he prepared breakfast and rubbed erratically at the back of his neck. Shooting looks over his shoulder at me every few seconds, I decided to opt from the meal and set to work in the garden.

Azalea and Forget-Me-Nots alike weathered under the sun, fat droplets of water beading their heads. The pigments alone could inspire a thousand paintings; everything else seemed so gray in comparison.

A shadow moved between the trees of the nearby forest, and I jerked my head in response, staring into the dark willows, flowers forgotten. It had been a person, I was certain. A person dressed in all black, their head ducked low as they darted between the trees.

My addled mind put together it must be thieves planning on robbing my home at night; they were scouting the scene. I must be prepared.

That night, I drew the shades, enveloping my room in inky blackness, and forced my heavy lids open. A rattling at the door to my room, I remembered Edgar and his nightly ritual. I let my eyes close, and with that my mind went blank.

Having gotten some good sleep, I awoke with a spring in my step I’d been missing the past week. Dark smudges still painted underneath my eyes, and my mind remained foggy, but my bones no longer groaned at every movement.

Sweat matting his hair down, Edgar asked about my niece who’d recently gotten married. I smiled and told him of her new husband, new house, and new purpose. He nodded politely, but his smile twitched and his eyes didn’t roam my face as usual. No, his eyes locked onto my eyes, or rather, my eye.

I drew the shutters again on the eighth night, mind still providing the paranoia of thieves in the night, and tucked in early. Weary joints and muscles sunk into the mattress and a dream caught hold of my mind rather quickly.

Gray sand rough between my toes, I watched the gray waves roll in, foaming white when they broke against the shore. The sun warmed through my muscles, my shoulders burning satisfyingly.

Out on the horizon, something caught my attention. It could have been a mirage, but the striking blue of it made my heart quicken. The water was cold, frigid even, but I forced my legs to kick and my arms to push me forward. I was going to reach that blue. 

The gray beach with gray sand faded as a familiar creaking sound drew me back to the land of consciences. _Thieves_! I thought. I bolted upright and demanded, “Who’s there?”

No response was forth coming, but I could hear someone in the room with me. It was my turn to wait in the dark; I waited an hour. Something deep within me knew the danger I was in before I fully comprehended it myself, and my throat let out a deep groan.

A dim light slipped from the crack of the door, falling directly on my bad eye. I turned to look, and saw Edgar’s white face glowing from the light. It was only his head that was in the room, peeking through as if without a body. The pale face waited there, staring at me. I stared back; heart oddly calm.

His face was like that of a ghost, if I were to believe in such things. The darkness played with the periphery of my vision. I saw bugs crawling up the walls, rats scurrying across the floor, and figures of seven feet towering in the corner. All of this, I was unable to investigate further, gaze caught in a previous engagement.

Minutes passed of dead eye contact. I wasn’t sure he was actually seeing me. His hand held the lantern steadily, beam of light focused on my eye.

The silence was deafening, but the moment it was broken, how I wished for it back. He screamed, charging into the room, footsteps heavy and quick. I shrieked once, unable to draw in a breath for a second one.

My legs were wrapped in a vice like grip and I was pulled to the ground, floor cold on my bare skin. He loomed over me like I’d imagined, only no hammer was in his hand. He seemed to notice his lack of a weapon as well. A quick flick of the eyes, and he wrenched my mattress from the frame and then I couldn’t breathe.

A heavy weight suffocated me, the utter black around me seemingly growing darker and darker. This was it, I thought, lungs unable to fill, feeling as though they were stuffed with cotton. My eyes closed. My heart stopped.


End file.
